False pretence6 not being in the Minor Canon’s nature, he doubtless displayed openly that he would at any time have revived the subject, and even desired to discuss it. The determined7 reticence8 of Jasper, however, was not to be so approached. Impassive, moody10, solitary11, resolute12, so concentrated on one idea, and on its attendant fixed13 purpose, that he would share it with no fellow-creature, he lived apart from human life. Constantly exercising an Art which brought him into mechanical harmony with others, and which could not have been pursued unless he and they had been in the nicest mechanical relations and unison14, it is curious to consider that the spirit of the man was in moral accordance or interchange with nothing around him. This indeed he had confided15 to his lost nephew, before the occasion for his present inflexibility16 arose.
That he must know of Rosa’s abrupt17 departure, and that he must divine its cause, was not to be doubted. Did he suppose that he had terrified her into silence? or did he suppose that she had imparted to any one — to Mr. Crisparkle himself, for instance — the particulars of his last interview with her? Mr. Crisparkle could not determine this in his mind. He could not but admit, however, as a just man, that it was not, of itself, a crime to fall in love with Rosa, any more than it was a crime to offer to set love above revenge.
The dreadful suspicion of Jasper, which Rosa was so shocked to have received into her imagination, appeared to have no harbour in Mr. Crisparkle’s. If it ever haunted Helena’s thoughts or Neville’s, neither gave it one spoken word of utterance18. Mr. Grewgious took no pains to conceal19 his implacable dislike of Jasper, yet he never referred it, however distantly, to such a source. But he was a reticent20 as well as an eccentric man; and he made no mention of a certain evening when he warmed his hands at the gatehouse fire, and looked steadily21 down upon a certain heap of torn and miry clothes upon the floor.
Drowsy22 Cloisterham, whenever it awoke to a passing reconsideration of a story above six months old and dismissed by the bench of magistrates23, was pretty equally divided in opinion whether John Jasper’s beloved nephew had been killed by his treacherously24 passionate25 rival, or in an open struggle; or had, for his own purposes, spirited himself away. It then lifted up its head, to notice that the bereaved26 Jasper was still ever devoted27 to discovery and revenge; and then dozed28 off again. This was the condition of matters, all round, at the period to which the present history has now attained29.
The Cathedral doors have closed for the night; and the Choir30-master, on a short leave of absence for two or three services, sets his face towards London. He travels thither31 by the means by which Rosa travelled, and arrives, as Rosa arrived, on a hot, dusty evening.
His travelling baggage is easily carried in his hand, and he repairs with it on foot, to a hybrid32 hotel in a little square behind Aldersgate Street, near the General Post Office. It is hotel, boarding-house, or lodging33-house, at its visitor’s option. It announces itself, in the new Railway Advertisers, as a novel enterprise, timidly beginning to spring up. It bashfully, almost apologetically, gives the traveller to understand that it does not expect him, on the good old constitutional hotel plan, to order a pint34 of sweet blacking for his drinking, and throw it away; but insinuates35 that he may have his boots blacked instead of his stomach, and maybe also have bed, breakfast, attendance, and a porter up all night, for a certain fixed charge. From these and similar premises36, many true Britons in the lowest spirits deduce that the times are levelling times, except in the article of high roads, of which there will shortly be not one in England.
He eats without appetite, and soon goes forth37 again. Eastward38 and still eastward through the stale streets he takes his way, until he reaches his destination: a miserable39 court, specially40 miserable among many such.
He ascends41 a broken staircase, opens a door, looks into a dark stifling42 room, and says: ‘Are you alone here?’
‘Alone, deary; worse luck for me, and better for you,’ replies a croaking43 voice. ‘Come in, come in, whoever you be: I can’t see you till I light a match, yet I seem to know the sound of your speaking. I’m acquainted with you, ain’t I?’
‘Light your match, and try.’
‘So I will, deary, so I will; but my hand that shakes, as I can’t lay it on a match all in a moment. And I cough so, that, put my matches where I may, I never find ’em there. They jump and start, as I cough and cough, like live things. Are you off a voyage, deary?’
‘No.’
‘Not seafaring?’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s land customers, and there’s water customers. I’m a mother to both. Different from Jack45 Chinaman t’other side the court. He ain’t a father to neither. It ain’t in him. And he ain’t got the true secret of mixing, though he charges as much as me that has, and more if he can get it. Here’s a match, and now where’s the candle? If my cough takes me, I shall cough out twenty matches afore I gets a light.’
But she finds the candle, and lights it, before the cough comes on. It seizes her in the moment of success, and she sits down rocking herself to and fro, and gasping46 at intervals47: ‘O, my lungs is awful bad! my lungs is wore away to cabbage-nets!’ until the fit is over. During its continuance she has had no power of sight, or any other power not absorbed in the struggle; but as it leaves her, she begins to strain her eyes, and as soon as she is able to articulate, she cries, staring:
‘Why, it’s you!’
‘Are you so surprised to see me?’
‘I thought I never should have seen you again, deary. I thought you was dead, and gone to Heaven.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t suppose you could have kept away, alive, so long, from the poor old soul with the real receipt for mixing it. And you are in mourning too! Why didn’t you come and have a pipe or two of comfort? Did they leave you money, perhaps, and so you didn’t want comfort?’
‘ No.’
‘Who was they as died, deary?’
‘A relative.’
‘Died of what, lovey?’
‘Probably, Death.’
‘We are short to-night!’ cries the woman, with a propitiatory48 laugh. ‘Short and snappish we are! But we’re out of sorts for want of a smoke. We’ve got the all-overs, haven49’t us, deary? But this is the place to cure ’em in; this is the place where the all-overs is smoked off.’
‘You may make ready, then,’ replies the visitor, ‘as soon as you like.’
He divests50 himself of his shoes, loosens his cravat51, and lies across the foot of the squalid bed, with his head resting on his left hand.
‘Now you begin to look like yourself,’ says the woman approvingly. ‘Now I begin to know my old customer indeed! Been trying to mix for yourself this long time, poppet?’
‘I have been taking it now and then in my own way.’
‘Never take it your own way. It ain’t good for trade, and it ain’t good for you. Where’s my ink-bottle, and where’s my thimble, and where’s my little spoon? He’s going to take it in a artful form now, my deary dear!’
Entering on her process, and beginning to bubble and blow at the faint spark enclosed in the hollow of her hands, she speaks from time to time, in a tone of snuffling satisfaction, without leaving off. When he speaks, he does so without looking at her, and as if his thoughts were already roaming away by anticipation52.
‘I’ve got a pretty many smokes ready for you, first and last, haven’t I, chuckey?’
‘A good many.’
‘When you first come, you was quite new to it; warn’t ye?’
‘Yes, I was easily disposed of, then.’
‘But you got on in the world, and was able by-and-by to take your pipe with the best of ’em, warn’t ye?’
‘Ah; and the worst.’
‘It’s just ready for you. What a sweet singer you was when you first come! Used to drop your head, and sing yourself off like a bird! It’s ready for you now, deary.’
He takes it from her with great care, and puts the mouthpiece to his lips. She seats herself beside him, ready to refill the pipe.
After inhaling53 a few whiffs in silence, he doubtingly accosts54 her with:
‘Is it as potent55 as it used to be?’
‘What do you speak of, deary?’
‘What should I speak of, but what I have in my mouth?’
‘It’s just the same. Always the identical same.’
‘It doesn’t taste so. And it’s slower.’
‘You’ve got more used to it, you see.’
‘That may be the cause, certainly. Look here.’ He stops, becomes dreamy, and seems to forget that he has invited her attention. She bends over him, and speaks in his ear.
‘I’m attending to you. Says you just now, Look here. Says I now, I’m attending to ye. We was talking just before of your being used to it.’
‘I know all that. I was only thinking. Look here. Suppose you had something in your mind; something you were going to do.’
‘Yes, deary; something I was going to do?’
‘But had not quite determined to do.’
‘Yes, deary.’
‘Might or might not do, you understand.’
‘Yes.’ With the point of a needle she stirs the contents of the bowl.
‘Should you do it in your fancy, when you were lying here doing this?’
She nods her head. ‘Over and over again.’
‘Just like me! I did it over and over again. I have done it hundreds of thousands of times in this room.’
‘It’s to be hoped it was pleasant to do, deary.’
‘It was pleasant to do!’
He says this with a savage56 air, and a spring or start at her. Quite unmoved she retouches and replenishes57 the contents of the bowl with her little spatula58. Seeing her intent upon the occupation, he sinks into his former attitude.
‘It was a journey, a difficult and dangerous journey. That was the subject in my mind. A hazardous59 and perilous60 journey, over abysses where a slip would be destruction. Look down, look down! You see what lies at the bottom there?’
He has darted62 forward to say it, and to point at the ground, as though at some imaginary object far beneath. The woman looks at him, as his spasmodic face approaches close to hers, and not at his pointing. She seems to know what the influence of her perfect quietude would be; if so, she has not miscalculated it, for he subsides64 again.
‘Well; I have told you I did it here hundreds of thousands of times. What do I say? I did it millions and billions of times. I did it so often, and through such vast expanses of time, that when it was really done, it seemed not worth the doing, it was done so soon.’
‘That’s the journey you have been away upon,’ she quietly remarks.
He glares at her as he smokes; and then, his eyes becoming filmy, answers: ‘That’s the journey.’
Silence ensues. His eyes are sometimes closed and sometimes open. The woman sits beside him, very attentive65 to the pipe, which is all the while at his lips.
‘I’ll warrant,’ she observes, when he has been looking fixedly66 at her for some consecutive67 moments, with a singular appearance in his eyes of seeming to see her a long way off, instead of so near him: ‘I’ll warrant you made the journey in a many ways, when you made it so often?’
‘No, always in one way.’
‘Always in the same way?’
‘Ay.’
‘In the way in which it was really made at last?’
‘Ay.’
‘And always took the same pleasure in harping68 on it?’
‘Ay.’
For the time he appears unequal to any other reply than this lazy monosyllabic assent69. Probably to assure herself that it is not the assent of a mere70 automaton71, she reverses the form of her next sentence.
‘Did you never get tired of it, deary, and try to call up something else for a change?’
He struggles into a sitting posture72, and retorts upon her: ‘What do you mean? What did I want? What did I come for?’
She gently lays him back again, and before returning him the instrument he has dropped, revives the fire in it with her own breath; then says to him, coaxingly73:
‘Sure, sure, sure! Yes, yes, yes! Now I go along with you. You was too quick for me. I see now. You come o’ purpose to take the journey. Why, I might have known it, through its standing74 by you so.’
He answers first with a laugh, and then with a passionate setting of his teeth: ‘Yes, I came on purpose. When I could not bear my life, I came to get the relief, and I got it. It was one! It was one!’ This repetition with extraordinary vehemence75, and the snarl76 of a wolf.
She observes him very cautiously, as though mentally feeling her way to her next remark. It is: ‘There was a fellow-traveller, deary.’
‘Ha, ha, ha!’ He breaks into a ringing laugh, or rather yell.
‘To think,’ he cries, ‘how often fellow-traveller, and yet not know it! To think how many times he went the journey, and never saw the road!’
The woman kneels upon the floor, with her arms crossed on the coverlet of the bed, close by him, and her chin upon them. In this crouching77 attitude she watches him. The pipe is falling from his mouth. She puts it back, and laying her hand upon his chest, moves him slightly from side to side. Upon that he speaks, as if she had spoken.
‘Yes! I always made the journey first, before the changes of colours and the great landscapes and glittering processions began. They couldn’t begin till it was off my mind. I had no room till then for anything else.’
Once more he lapses78 into silence. Once more she lays her hand upon his chest, and moves him slightly to and fro, as a cat might stimulate79 a half-slain mouse. Once more he speaks, as if she had spoken.
Sleeping it off
‘What? I told you so. When it comes to be real at last, it is so short that it seems unreal for the first time. Hark!’
‘Yes, deary. I’m listening.’
‘Time and place are both at hand.’
He is on his feet, speaking in a whisper, and as if in the dark.
‘Time, place, and fellow-traveller,’ she suggests, adopting his tone, and holding him softly by the arm.
‘How could the time be at hand unless the fellow-traveller was? Hush80! The journey’s made. It’s over.’
‘So soon?’
‘That’s what I said to you. So soon. Wait a little. This is a vision. I shall sleep it off. It has been too short and easy. I must have a better vision than this; this is the poorest of all. No struggle, no consciousness of peril61, no entreaty81 — and yet I never saw that before.’ With a start.
‘Saw what, deary?’
‘Look at it! Look what a poor, mean, miserable thing it is! that must be real. It’s over.’
He has accompanied this incoherence with some wild unmeaning gestures; but they trail off into the progressive inaction of stupor82, and he lies a log upon the bed.
The woman, however, is still inquisitive83. With a repetition of her cat-like action she slightly stirs his body again, and listens; stirs again, and listens; whispers to it, and listens. Finding it past all rousing for the time, she slowly gets upon her feet, with an air of disappointment, and flicks84 the face with the back of her hand in turning from it.
But she goes no further away from it than the chair upon the hearth85. She sits in it, with an elbow on one of its arms, and her chin upon her hand, intent upon him. ‘I heard ye say once,’ she croaks86 under her breath, ‘I heard ye say once, when I was lying where you’re lying, and you were making your speculations87 upon me, “Unintelligible!” I heard you say so, of two more than me. But don’t ye be too sure always; don’t be ye too sure, beauty!’
Unwinking, cat-like, and intent, she presently adds: ‘Not so potent as it once was? Ah! Perhaps not at first. You may be more right there. Practice makes perfect. I may have learned the secret how to make ye talk, deary.’
He talks no more, whether or no. Twitching88 in an ugly way from time to time, both as to his face and limbs, he lies heavy and silent. The wretched candle burns down; the woman takes its expiring end between her fingers, lights another at it, crams89 the guttering91 frying morsel92 deep into the candlestick, and rams90 it home with the new candle, as if she were loading some ill-savoured and unseemly weapon of witchcraft93; the new candle in its turn burns down; and still he lies insensible. At length what remains94 of the last candle is blown out, and daylight looks into the room.
It has not looked very long, when he sits up, chilled and shaking, slowly recovers consciousness of where he is, and makes himself ready to depart. The woman receives what he pays her with a grateful, ‘Bless ye, bless ye, deary!’ and seems, tired out, to begin making herself ready for sleep as he leaves the room.
But seeming may be false or true. It is false in this case; for, the moment the stairs have ceased to creak under his tread, she glides95 after him, muttering emphatically: ‘I’ll not miss ye twice!’
There is no egress96 from the court but by its entrance. With a weird97 peep from the doorway98, she watches for his looking back. He does not look back before disappearing, with a wavering step. She follows him, peeps from the court, sees him still faltering99 on without looking back, and holds him in view.
He repairs to the back of Aldersgate Street, where a door immediately opens to his knocking. She crouches100 in another doorway, watching that one, and easily comprehending that he puts up temporarily at that house. Her patience is unexhausted by hours. For sustenance101 she can, and does, buy bread within a hundred yards, and milk as it is carried past her.
He comes forth again at noon, having changed his dress, but carrying nothing in his hand, and having nothing carried for him. He is not going back into the country, therefore, just yet. She follows him a little way, hesitates, instantaneously turns confidently, and goes straight into the house he has quitted.
‘Is the gentleman from Cloisterham indoors?
‘Just gone out.’
‘Unlucky. When does the gentleman return to Cloisterham?’
‘At six this evening.’
‘Bless ye and thank ye. May the Lord prosper102 a business where a civil question, even from a poor soul, is so civilly answered!’
‘I’ll not miss ye twice!’ repeats the poor soul in the street, and not so civilly. ‘I lost ye last, where that omnibus you got into nigh your journey’s end plied103 betwixt the station and the place. I wasn’t so much as certain that you even went right on to the place. Now I know ye did. My gentleman from Cloisterham, I’ll be there before ye, and bide104 your coming. I’ve swore my oath that I’ll not miss ye twice!’
Accordingly, that same evening the poor soul stands in Cloisterham High Street, looking at the many quaint44 gables of the Nuns’ House, and getting through the time as she best can until nine o’clock; at which hour she has reason to suppose that the arriving omnibus passengers may have some interest for her. The friendly darkness, at that hour, renders it easy for her to ascertain105 whether this be so or not; and it is so, for the passenger not to be missed twice arrives among the rest.
‘Now let me see what becomes of you. Go on!’
An observation addressed to the air, and yet it might be addressed to the passenger, so compliantly106 does he go on along the High Street until he comes to an arched gateway107, at which he unexpectedly vanishes. The poor soul quickens her pace; is swift, and close upon him entering under the gateway; but only sees a postern staircase on one side of it, and on the other side an ancient vaulted108 room, in which a large-headed, gray-haired gentleman is writing, under the odd circumstances of sitting open to the thoroughfare and eyeing all who pass, as if he were toll-taker of the gateway: though the way is free.
‘Halloa!’ he cries in a low voice, seeing her brought to a stand-still: ‘who are you looking for?’
‘There was a gentleman passed in here this minute, sir.’
‘Of course there was. What do you want with him?’
‘Where do he live, deary?’
‘Live? Up that staircase.’
‘Bless ye! Whisper. What’s his name, deary?’
‘Surname Jasper, Christian109 name John. Mr. John Jasper.’
‘Has he a calling, good gentleman?’
‘Calling? Yes. Sings in the choir.’
‘In the spire110?’
‘Choir.’
‘What’s that?’
Mr. Datchery rises from his papers, and comes to his doorstep. ‘Do you know what a cathedral is?’ he asks, jocosely111.
The woman nods.
‘What is it?’
She looks puzzled, casting about in her mind to find a definition, when it occurs to her that it is easier to point out the substantial object itself, massive against the dark-blue sky and the early stars.
‘That’s the answer. Go in there at seven to-morrow morning, and you may see Mr. John Jasper, and hear him too.’
‘Thank ye! Thank ye!’
The burst of triumph in which she thanks him does not escape the notice of the single buffer112 of an easy temper living idly on his means. He glances at her; clasps his hands behind him, as the wont113 of such buffers114 is; and lounges along the echoing Precincts at her side.
‘Or,’ he suggests, with a backward hitch115 of his head, ‘you can go up at once to Mr. Jasper’s rooms there.’
The woman eyes him with a cunning smile, and shakes her head.
‘O! you don’t want to speak to him?’
She repeats her dumb reply, and forms with her lips a soundless ‘No.’
‘You can admire him at a distance three times a day, whenever you like. It’s a long way to come for that, though.’
The woman looks up quickly. If Mr. Datchery thinks she is to be so induced to declare where she comes from, he is of a much easier temper than she is. But she acquits116 him of such an artful thought, as he lounges along, like the chartered bore of the city, with his uncovered gray hair blowing about, and his purposeless hands rattling117 the loose money in the pockets of his trousers.
The chink of the money has an attraction for her greedy ears. ‘Wouldn’t you help me to pay for my traveller’s lodging, dear gentleman, and to pay my way along? I am a poor soul, I am indeed, and troubled with a grievous cough.’
‘You know the travellers’ lodging, I perceive, and are making directly for it,’ is Mr. Datchery’s bland118 comment, still rattling his loose money. ‘Been here often, my good woman?’
‘Once in all my life.’
‘Ay, ay?’
They have arrived at the entrance to the Monks’ Vineyard. An appropriate remembrance, presenting an exemplary model for imitation, is revived in the woman’s mind by the sight of the place. She stops at the gate, and says energetically:
‘By this token, though you mayn’t believe it, That a young gentleman gave me three-and-sixpence as I was coughing my breath away on this very grass. I asked him for three-and-sixpence, and he gave it me.’
‘Wasn’t it a little cool to name your sum?’ hints Mr. Datchery, still rattling. ‘Isn’t it customary to leave the amount open? Mightn’t it have had the appearance, to the young gentleman — only the appearance — that he was rather dictated119 to?’
‘Look’ee here, deary,’ she replies, in a confidential120 and persuasive121 tone, ‘I wanted the money to lay it out on a medicine as does me good, and as I deal in. I told the young gentleman so, and he gave it me, and I laid it out honest to the last brass122 farden. I want to lay out the same sum in the same way now; and if you’ll give it me, I’ll lay it out honest to the last brass farden again, upon my soul!’
‘What’s the medicine?’
‘I’ll be honest with you beforehand, as well as after. It’s opium123.’
Mr. Datchery, with a sudden change of countenance124, gives her a sudden look.
‘It’s opium, deary. Neither more nor less. And it’s like a human creetur so far, that you always hear what can be said against it, but seldom what can be said in its praise.’
Mr. Datchery begins very slowly to count out the sum demanded of him. Greedily watching his hands, she continues to hold forth on the great example set him.
‘It was last Christmas Eve, just arter dark, the once that I was here afore, when the young gentleman gave me the three-and-six.’ Mr. Datchery stops in his counting, finds he has counted wrong, shakes his money together, and begins again.
‘And the young gentleman’s name,’ she adds, ‘was Edwin.’
Mr. Datchery drops some money, stoops to pick it up, and reddens with the exertion125 as he asks:
‘How do you know the young gentleman’s name?’
‘I asked him for it, and he told it me. I only asked him the two questions, what was his Chris’en name, and whether he’d a sweetheart? And he answered, Edwin, and he hadn’t.’
Mr. Datchery pauses with the selected coins in his hand, rather as if he were falling into a brown study of their value, and couldn’t bear to part with them. The woman looks at him distrustfully, and with her anger brewing126 for the event of his thinking better of the gift; but he bestows127 it on her as if he were abstracting his mind from the sacrifice, and with many servile thanks she goes her way.
John Jasper’s lamp is kindled128, and his lighthouse is shining when Mr. Datchery returns alone towards it. As mariners129 on a dangerous voyage, approaching an iron-bound coast, may look along the beams of the warning light to the haven lying beyond it that may never be reached, so Mr. Datchery’s wistful gaze is directed to this beacon130, and beyond.
His object in now revisiting his lodging is merely to put on the hat which seems so superfluous131 an article in his wardrobe. It is half-past ten by the Cathedral clock when he walks out into the Precincts again; he lingers and looks about him, as though, the enchanted132 hour when Mr. Durdles may be stoned home having struck, he had some expectation of seeing the Imp9 who is appointed to the mission of stoning him.
In effect, that Power of Evil is abroad. Having nothing living to stone at the moment, he is discovered by Mr. Datchery in the unholy office of stoning the dead, through the railings of the churchyard. The Imp finds this a relishing133 and piquing134 pursuit; firstly, because their resting-place is announced to be sacred; and secondly135, because the tall headstones are sufficiently like themselves, on their beat in the dark, to justify136 the delicious fancy that they are hurt when hit.
Mr. Datchery hails with him: ‘Halloa, Winks137!’
He acknowledges the hail with: ‘Halloa, Dick!’ Their acquaintance seemingly having been established on a familiar footing.
‘But, I say,’ he remonstrates138, ‘don’t yer go a-making my name public. I never means to plead to no name, mind yer. When they says to me in the Lock-up, a-going to put me down in the book, “What’s your name?” I says to them, “Find out.” Likewise when they says, “What’s your religion?” I says, “Find out.”’
Which, it may be observed in passing, it would be immensely difficult for the State, however statistical139, to do.
‘Asides which,’ adds the boy, ‘there ain’t no family of Winkses.’
‘I think there must be.’
‘Yer lie, there ain’t. The travellers give me the name on account of my getting no settled sleep and being knocked up all night; whereby I gets one eye roused open afore I’ve shut the other. That’s what Winks means. Deputy’s the nighest name to indict140 me by: but yer wouldn’t catch me pleading to that, neither.’
‘Deputy be it always, then. We two are good friends; eh, Deputy?’
‘Jolly good.’
‘I forgave you the debt you owed me when we first became acquainted, and many of my sixpences have come your way since; eh, Deputy?’
‘Ah! And what’s more, yer ain’t no friend o’ Jarsper’s. What did he go a-histing me off my legs for?’
‘What indeed! But never mind him now. A shilling of mine is going your way to-night, Deputy. You have just taken in a lodger141 I have been speaking to; an infirm woman with a cough.’
‘Puffer,’ assents142 Deputy, with a shrewd leer of recognition, and smoking an imaginary pipe, with his head very much on one side and his eyes very much out of their places: ‘Hopeum Puffer.’
‘What is her name?’
‘‘Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.’
‘She has some other name than that; where does she live?’
‘Up in London. Among the Jacks143.’
‘The sailors?’
‘I said so; Jacks; and Chayner men: and hother Knifers.’
‘I should like to know, through you, exactly where she lives.’
‘All right. Give us ’old.’
A shilling passes; and, in that spirit of confidence which should pervade144 all business transactions between principals of honour, this piece of business is considered done.
‘But here’s a lark145!’ cries Deputy. ‘Where did yer think ‘Er Royal Highness is a-goin’ to to-morrow morning? Blest if she ain’t a-goin’ to the kin-free-der-el!’ He greatly prolongs the word in his ecstasy146, and smites147 his leg, and doubles himself up in a fit of shrill148 laughter.
‘How do you know that, Deputy?’
‘Cos she told me so just now. She said she must be hup and hout o’ purpose. She ses, “Deputy, I must ’ave a early wash, and make myself as swell149 as I can, for I’m a-goin’ to take a turn at the kin-free-der-el!”’ He separates the syllables150 with his former zest151, and, not finding his sense of the ludicrous sufficiently relieved by stamping about on the pavement, breaks into a slow and stately dance, perhaps supposed to be performed by the Dean.
Mr. Datchery receives the communication with a well-satisfied though pondering face, and breaks up the conference. Returning to his quaint lodging, and sitting long over the supper of bread-and-cheese and salad and ale which Mrs. Tope has left prepared for him, he still sits when his supper is finished. At length he rises, throws open the door of a corner cupboard, and refers to a few uncouth152 chalked strokes on its inner side.
‘I like,’ says Mr. Datchery, ‘the old tavern153 way of keeping scores. Illegible154 except to the scorer. The scorer not committed, the scored debited155 with what is against him. Hum; ha! A very small score this; a very poor score!’
He sighs over the contemplation of its poverty, takes a bit of chalk from one of the cupboard shelves, and pauses with it in his hand, uncertain what addition to make to the account.
‘I think a moderate stroke,’ he concludes, ‘is all I am justified156 in scoring up;’ so, suits the action to the word, closes the cupboard, and goes to bed.
A brilliant morning shines on the old city. Its antiquities157 and ruins are surpassingly beautiful, with a lusty ivy158 gleaming in the sun, and the rich trees waving in the balmy air. Changes of glorious light from moving boughs159, songs of birds, scents160 from gardens, woods, and fields — or, rather, from the one great garden of the whole cultivated island in its yielding time — penetrate161 into the Cathedral, subdue162 its earthy odour, and preach the Resurrection and the Life. The cold stone tombs of centuries ago grow warm; and flecks163 of brightness dart63 into the sternest marble corners of the building, fluttering there like wings.
Comes Mr. Tope with his large keys, and yawningly unlocks and sets open. Come Mrs. Tope and attendant sweeping164 sprites. Come, in due time, organist and bellows-boy, peeping down from the red curtains in the loft165, fearlessly flapping dust from books up at that remote elevation166, and whisking it from stops and pedals. Come sundry167 rooks, from various quarters of the sky, back to the great tower; who may be presumed to enjoy vibration168, and to know that bell and organ are going to give it them. Come a very small and straggling congregation indeed: chiefly from Minor Canon Corner and the Precincts. Come Mr. Crisparkle, fresh and bright; and his ministering brethren, not quite so fresh and bright. Come the Choir in a hurry (always in a hurry, and struggling into their nightgowns at the last moment, like children shirking bed), and comes John Jasper leading their line. Last of all comes Mr. Datchery into a stall, one of a choice empty collection very much at his service, and glancing about him for Her Royal Highness the Princess Puffer.
The service is pretty well advanced before Mr. Datchery can discern Her Royal Highness. But by that time he has made her out, in the shade. She is behind a pillar, carefully withdrawn169 from the Choir-master’s view, but regards him with the closest attention. All unconscious of her presence, he chants and sings. She grins when he is most musically fervid170, and — yes, Mr. Datchery sees her do it! — shakes her fist at him behind the pillar’s friendly shelter.
Mr. Datchery looks again, to convince himself. Yes, again! As ugly and withered171 as one of the fantastic carvings172 on the under brackets of the stall seats, as malignant173 as the Evil One, as hard as the big brass eagle holding the sacred books upon his wings (and, according to the sculptor’s representation of his ferocious174 attributes, not at all converted by them), she hugs herself in her lean arms, and then shakes both fists at the leader of the Choir.
And at that moment, outside the grated door of the Choir, having eluded175 the vigilance of Mr. Tope by shifty resources in which he is an adept176, Deputy peeps, sharp-eyed, through the bars, and stares astounded177 from the threatener to the threatened.
The service comes to an end, and the servitors disperse178 to breakfast. Mr. Datchery accosts his last new acquaintance outside, when the Choir (as much in a hurry to get their bedgowns off, as they were but now to get them on) have scuffled away.
‘Well, mistress. Good morning. You have seen him?’
‘I’ve seen him, deary; I’ve seen him!’
‘And you know him?’
‘Know him! Better far than all the Reverend Parsons put together know him.’
Mrs. Tope’s care has spread a very neat, clean breakfast ready for her lodger. Before sitting down to it, he opens his corner-cupboard door; takes his bit of chalk from its shelf; adds one thick line to the score, extending from the top of the cupboard door to the bottom; and then falls to with an appetite.
The End
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1
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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2
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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3
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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4
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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5
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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6
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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7
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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8
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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9
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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10
moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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11
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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12
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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13
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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14
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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15
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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16
inflexibility
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| n.不屈性，顽固，不变性；不可弯曲；非挠性；刚性 | |
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17
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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18
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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19
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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20
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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21
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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22
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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23
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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24
treacherously
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| 背信弃义地； 背叛地； 靠不住地； 危险地 | |
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25
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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26
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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27
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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28
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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30
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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31
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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32
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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33
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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34
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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35
insinuates
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| n.暗示( insinuate的名词复数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入v.暗示( insinuate的第三人称单数 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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36
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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37
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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38
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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39
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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40
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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41
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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43
croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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44
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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45
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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46
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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47
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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48
propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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49
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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50
divests
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| v.剥夺( divest的第三人称单数 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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51
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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52
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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53
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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54
accosts
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的第三人称单数 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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55
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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56
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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57
replenishes
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| 补充( replenish的第三人称单数 )； 重新装满 | |
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58
spatula
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| n.抹刀 | |
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59
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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60
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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61
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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62
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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63
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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64
subsides
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的第三人称单数 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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65
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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66
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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67
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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68
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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69
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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70
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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71
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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72
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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73
coaxingly
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| adv. 以巧言诱哄，以甘言哄骗 | |
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74
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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75
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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76
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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77
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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78
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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79
stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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80
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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81
entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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82
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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83
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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84
flicks
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的第三人称单数 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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85
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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86
croaks
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的第三人称单数 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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87
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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88
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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89
crams
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| v.塞入( cram的第三人称单数 )；填塞；塞满；（为考试而）死记硬背功课 | |
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90
rams
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| n.公羊( ram的名词复数 )；(R-)白羊（星）座；夯；攻城槌v.夯实（土等）( ram的第三人称单数 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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91
guttering
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| n.用于建排水系统的材料；沟状切除术；开沟 | |
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92
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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93
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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94
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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95
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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96
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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97
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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98
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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99
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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100
crouches
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| n.蹲着的姿势( crouch的名词复数 )v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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102
prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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103
plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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104
bide
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| v.忍耐；等候；住 | |
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105
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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106
compliantly
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| adv.顺从地，应允地 | |
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107
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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108
vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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109
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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110
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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111
jocosely
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| adv.说玩笑地，诙谐地 | |
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112
buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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113
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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114
buffers
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| 起缓冲作用的人（或物）( buffer的名词复数 )； 缓冲器； 减震器； 愚蠢老头 | |
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115
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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116
acquits
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的第三人称单数 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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117
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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118
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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119
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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120
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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121
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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122
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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123
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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124
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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125
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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126
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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127
bestows
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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129
mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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130
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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131
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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132
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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133
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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134
piquing
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的现在分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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135
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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136
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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137
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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138
remonstrates
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的第三人称单数 )；告诫 | |
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139
statistical
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| adj.统计的，统计学的 | |
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140
indict
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| v.起诉，控告，指控 | |
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141
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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142
assents
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| 同意，赞同( assent的名词复数 ) | |
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143
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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144
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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145
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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146
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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147
smites
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的第三人称单数 ) | |
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148
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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149
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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150
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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151
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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152
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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153
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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154
illegible
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| adj.难以辨认的，字迹模糊的 | |
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155
debited
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| v.记入（账户）的借方( debit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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157
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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158
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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159
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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160
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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161
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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162
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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163
flecks
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| n.斑点，小点( fleck的名词复数 )；癍 | |
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164
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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165
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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166
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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167
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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168
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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169
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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170
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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171
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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172
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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173
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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174
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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175
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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176
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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177
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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178
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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